


Punch-Drunk

by Sarah_Vincent1506



Series: AskPolyLosersClub Oneshots [2]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, NSFW, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Spanking, mild choking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 11:26:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13926186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Vincent1506/pseuds/Sarah_Vincent1506
Summary: Stan picks Eddie up from his boxing class.College-age Losers' Club.Oneshot, paired with the askpolylosersclub ask blog on Tumblr, in which the Losers are in a polyamorous relationship. Based on a request for Steddie + Spanking.Link to the blog: https://askpolylosersclub.tumblr.com/





	Punch-Drunk

Stanley Uris has never really enjoyed sports.

Back in middle school, he tried baseball a few times. It was fun, sure, and, granted, the slightly surprised, and elated look on Bill’s face every time Stan suggested it, was more than worth the effort, on its own; Bill, himself, has been the star of the baseball team all the way through high-school, and now in college, too. And, Stan isn’t often one to praise his own _physical_ prowess, since he has never been particularly strong, nor athletic, but he’s fast, and lithe, and he always found baseball rather easy and freeing. He has stuck to running, since, because group sports and ‘team spirits’ just aren’t really his _thing_ , but every now and then, he’ll get the urge to play. At the very least, nowadays, it’s an excuse to watch Bill in all his wiry, sweaty glory.

In fact, it would probably be incorrect to say that Stan doesn’t enjoy sports, at all. Rather, he doesn’t particularly enjoy ‘participating’ in sports. But watching the straining tendons in Bill’s forearms, the attractive sheen of sweat across Ben’s forehead when he’s running, the powerful expanse of Mike’s broad shoulders when he throws or catches a football…sure, he enjoys those things _plenty_.

But nothing really compares to watching Eddie while he’s boxing.

It’s the first time Stan has ever seen Eddie in action; he hasn’t been taking boxing classes for very long, perhaps a month or two, and he has always been rather shy and secretive about it. They always supposed that it’s because Eddie doesn’t like being watched, in general. He hates being the centre of attention, and Stan understands that feeling all too well, but Eddie is far more insecure, still. He has been cheerleading for much longer, almost as long as Bill has been playing baseball, Ben has been running track, and Mike has been playing football, but, even then, Stan has only been to one or two of Eddie’s cheer practices, over the expanse of what must be closing in on four years. So, mostly, they just let him do his own thing.

Now, though, Stan cannot quite comprehend why on Earth Eddie would be insecure about _this_.

He watches silently from the doorway, as Eddie lands punch after punch against the heavy bag in the corner, relentless, determined, while a figure beside him urges him on and counts out the reps. Stan briefly speculates that the other, much taller figure, must be Eddie’s instructor, but, as observant as Stan normally is, he doesn’t even register the sex of this person. They blur into the background, like an unimportant extra, at the edges of a scene in a movie.

There’s a lengthy, detailed list of the things Stan _does_ notice, though. And the crowning glory at the head of this list, is the tan, defined curve of Eddie’s left bicep, the one Stan can see clearly from where he’s standing, softly shimmering with a layer of sweat beneath the bright light above him, a highlight which accentuates the surprising swell of the muscle there. Everyone knows that Eddie is fit, and that he is strong; a tiny, intense accumulation of raw power in human form, but Stan now wonders in quiet reverence, how just _how_ strong Eddie really is, has ever escaped his notice. Each solid blow to the bag is thrown with such force, that it’s almost frightening, every impact sending tense sparks of movement through the powerful muscles in Eddie’s arms. Stan feels each one like a shock of electricity, stoking a fire deep in his nerves.

It mirrors the fire in Eddie’s eyes, concentration, fearlessness, raw, pure aggression. His pupils are blown wide, smothering the dark, chocolate brown of his irises with even deeper, more intense black. The whites of his eyes are glistening…alive. Stan has never seen Eddie look so focused, nor in control. Thick, heavy lashes frame it all, a stark contrast to his warlike expression, a volatile mixture of beauty and strength; it’s a perfect description of Eddie, himself.

When the class is over, Eddie is breathless, and charged with adrenaline, his anger burned out, but replaced with something even more dangerous, a fiery sexual energy that everyone knows Eddie has pent up inside him like a sensitive, nuclear bomb, but that always seems to surface most after a good session of boxing. Stan can see it in him, now, in the way Eddie has started chewing at his lip, in the way he has barely noticed the droplet of sweat weaving its way down the side of his face, and in the rigidity of his stance as he removes his boxing gloves.

Usually, they’ll take bets on who they think is going to get jumped when Eddie gets home from a class. Sometimes, they even fight over the privilege. But today, Stan has been lucky enough to finish work early. Early enough that he had time to walk to the gym before Eddie was finished. Needless to say, he was planning, from the beginning, to take advantage of this opportunity. And now that he’s here, his desire to have Eddie to himself, for a while, is stronger than ever.

Eddie sees Stan across the room, as he’s removing his hand-wraps, and their eyes lock for a moment. Stan notices Eddie’s shoulders tense.

‘ _He’s nervous, now_ ,’ Stan thinks, almost smugly, knowing all-too-well that Eddie almost _never_ makes the first move, even when he’s desperately aroused. It seems strange, that startling lack of self-confidence, contrasted with the poise and mettle he was displaying only minutes earlier against the punching-bag. That’s just Eddie, though. Stan knows that sex with Eddie can be wild and intense, but breaching that initial barrier, and getting Eddie to let go of his self-consciousness, can still be incredibly tough.

Stan _loves_ a challenge, though.

“ _Wow_ ,” he says softly, as Eddie approaches. He doesn’t quite say it seductively, but laces it with enough enthusiasm to potentially suggest so, to leave Eddie wondering.

“What?” Eddie looks curious…embarrassed…hopeful?

“I just never realised how strong you are.” Stan is carrying Eddie’s gym bag; he picked it up, earlier, and he withdraws a clean, white towel, which Eddie then uses to wipe his arms, and his forehead, “Remind me never to piss you off.”

Eddie snorts a little, looking bashful as he hooks the towel around the back of his neck, and stuffs his boxing gloves unceremoniously into his gym bag. The gloves are a very distinctive shade of pale pink, standing out incredibly obviously in a room full of nothing but red and black gloves. Mike bought those gloves for him, back when Eddie first started boxing. Everyone knows that pink is Eddie’s favourite colour, and he wouldn’t ever deny it; Eddie doesn’t believe much in gender stereotypes, but even so, no one was sure he’d be brave enough to actually wear them, and announce that to the world. After all, there are some pretty dense-looking, macho-types in Eddie’s boxing class, who might not be so open-minded. Clearly, that wasn’t the case, though, since nobody appears to have so much as batted an eyelid the whole time Stan has been watching. Perhaps they were wrongfully enforcing some stereotypes of their own, with their assumptions.

“How long have you been waiting?”

Eddie is performing some routine stretches, now, mostly at the tops of his arms, his shoulders, and his sides, but he looks nervous doing it in front of Stan; they’re a little lack-lustre. It’s just like Eddie to worry too much about injuring a muscle to forego them entirely, though.

“Just a few minutes.”

Stan is lying. He has been there at least twenty-minutes, perhaps longer.

“Did you finish work early?”

“It didn’t take as long as I thought it would to finish the window display.”

“Oh. Does it look good?”

“Of course it looks good; _I_ did it.”

They both snicker, as their eyes meet, and Stan shucks Eddie’s bag up onto his shoulder. He’s not even sure why he has the urge to carry it for him, but he’s vaguely aware that Eddie’s arms, and the previous demonstration of his physical strength, are making him feel rather…inadequate. He doesn’t even know why; Stan has always been quite sure in his masculinity, and his femininity, too, for that matter. He doesn’t think that his feelings have much to do with masculinity, though. They have far more to do with Stan being the reigning King of control, the expert in sexual domination. If Eddie were to use his raw power to his advantage, he’d definitely give Stan some competition, and he’ll be damned if he’s ever going to allow that to happen.

It makes him feel a little better that he’s almost a foot taller, though, and he walks close by Eddie’s side, as they leave the gym, just to emphasise the disparity. They only stop long enough for Eddie to wash his hands, which he does every time he enters and leaves a building, if he can. Eddie never showers at the gym, though, despite his aversion to being sweaty or dirty; the undoubtedly questionable conditions of the facilities at the gym are clearly far more terrifying to him than the idea of postponing his post-workout shower until he gets home. Stan doesn’t blame him, he’d feel the same way.

“Do you want me to drive?” Stan asks, gently, as they approach Eddie’s car in the parking lot. Eddie seems wound pretty tightly, and Stan knows that a soft approach is always best to get Eddie to open up, when he’s feeling this way. It’s far too easy to just make him mad, if you’re not careful. A few misplaced words, a careless gesture, an unintentional cough, and that’s it.

“Okay.”

Stan is the only person in existence who has ever been allowed to drive Eddie’s beloved BMW; even Bill and Mike have only ever been granted the privilege of ‘passenger’. Richie has never even been allowed in the front seat. Clearly, Eddie considers Stan careful enough to be worthy, which is lucky, really, because Eddie’s is the only car Stan _wants_ to drive, considering he doesn’t have his own. He wouldn’t be caught dead in the driver’s seat of Bill’s crappy little red Peugeot, unless it was an emergency, and the prospect of pulling up to work in Mike’s old, rusty pickup is even worse. Eddie’s car is rather beautiful, though, a sleek, polished black saloon with heated leather seats, and tinted windows at the back, kept so spotlessly clean that you could comfortably eat a meal off its carpeted floor. As long as you’re also comfortable with being violently murdered, of course; there’s no food or drink allowed in Eddie’s car, unless it’s just water.

Still laden with Eddie’s bag, which Stan is quickly learning is unnecessarily heavy, likely because it’s filled with items Eddie couldn’t possibly ever need, he rounds to the passenger’s side, so that Eddie can perform his usual post-gym ritual of laying out a clean towel on the seat before he gets in, assuring that none of his sweaty skin touches the expensive leather.

“What do you have in here, a dead body?”

Stan deposits Eddie’s bag carefully onto the back seat, glad to be rid of its weight.

“Well, maybe…he was alive when I put him in there,” Eddie deadpans back as he climbs into the front passenger’s seat, and Stan sniggers softly as he (very respectfully) closes both doors and gets in on the driver’s side.

Things are silent, for a while.

The sky is darkening.

Eddie’s gym is quite far from their house; a roughly thirty-minute drive, if you don’t get caught in traffic. The last gym he went to was a lot closer, but since he was banned, after getting into a fight with two particularly broad-shouldered jocks who were making fun of him, and breaking one of their jaws, he had to look further afield. It doesn’t help that Eddie is particularly selective about which establishments are deemed worthy of his membership. Every other gym he looked at was either too dirty, too small (Eddie refuses to work out right next to anyone), or, in the case of one of the places he looked at, the trainer who showed him around sneezed into his hands, and didn’t clean them immediately afterwards.

Stan remains purposefully quiet as he drives. The peaceful, lavender-scented air in the cabin is only ever permeated by the occasional, soft clicking of the indicator before turns, and the ever-present, smooth purr of the car’s exceptional engine.

That is, until Eddie starts to get agitated, as Stan knew that he would. In his uncomfortably sweaty, pent-up state, there’s no way that Eddie would be able to sit still and silent for very long. And the best way to work him up even more, without being the unwitting cause of his irritation, is to allow him to brood on his own thoughts for a little while, let him stew in his own frustrated, anxious desire, until it undoubtedly boils over. Which is why Stan stays collected and oblivious, even when he can hear Eddie shifting in his seat beside him, even when he sees him tug irritably at one tight leg of his shorts, from the corner of his eye, even when he hears Eddie’s quiet, but blatant, frustrated little huff breach the calm atmosphere, _just_ beginning to flavour it with agitated lust.

Stan does well to hide the smirk that’s threatening to show at his lips, and uses Eddie’s distracted aggravation to his advantage, as he slyly turns on the heating. Eddie is pointedly looking out of the window, now, and he doesn’t notice, as Stan knew he wouldn’t. There’s still the faint shimmer of sweat on Eddie’s caramel-coloured thighs, and Stan glances over it lasciviously, before looking back at the road.

‘ _I’ve got you’_ , he thinks, almost maliciously, ‘ _You’re like a fly caught in my web, Eddie Kaspbrak_.’

But Eddie will make the first move.

Of that, just as he is of everything else, Stan is certain.

It only takes two minutes and forty-three seconds, before Eddie speaks. His visible agitation has reached such a level, that Eddie must know it’s obvious to Stan, and therefore, Stan can’t pretend not to notice, any longer, otherwise his pretending not to notice would become obvious, too.

“Did you turn on the heating?”

“Yeah. I thought you’d be cold. Why? Do you want me to turn it off?”

“I got it.” Eddie reaches forward briefly to turn the dial, and Stan sees the flustered pinkness in his cheeks, and feigns concern as though he doesn’t know _exactly_ what the issue is, as though he hasn’t planned and orchestrated this precise situation, himself.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just, I’m-”

Before he can go any further with whatever dismissive lie he was about to stammer his way through, Stan reaches over, and slides his finger confidently under the hem of Eddie’s shorts, all the way around the curve of his thigh, as though simply adjusting the material.

“Sorry; it was folded under. I couldn’t stop noticing it.”

Eddie is silent for a few seconds, then he recovers with a soft little, ‘ _Oh_ ’. But not before Stan has noticed the goose pimples spreading across the sweat-sticky expanse of his thighs, the minute twitch of Eddie’s hips in his seat, and the gentle shudder of his outward breath.

‘ _The idea is there, now, in his head_ ’, Stan thinks, smugly, ‘ _It won’t be long before_...’

“Stan, please pull over.”

“Why? What’s the matter? Panic attack?” Stan asks, calmly, looking over long enough to see the determined, but simultaneously anxious look on Eddie’s face, and to admire the way he’s worrying a certain amount of swelling and redness into his bottom lip with his teeth.

“Please just pull over.”

“Where would you like me to pull over?”

“I…I don’t know, I-”

“Somewhere quiet?” Stan makes a point of looking at him, now, and Eddie meets his eyes, this time, long enough that they can finally reach the point of mutual understanding. An unspoken agreement. Eddie looks genuinely concerned, though, as if wondering how Stan could have possibly deciphered how he was feeling from so few clues. Meanwhile, Stan wonders how Eddie can possibly be so obviously intelligent, and yet so frighteningly dense, at the same time.

“Yeah…” Eddie says it so softly that it’s almost inaudible, but Stan registers it nonetheless.

“You don’t have to say anything else.” He reassures gently, “I can help you with that.”

Stan’s voice is particularly suggestive, now, of his intentions, and Eddie is far too suggestible not to consequently be suffocated by his own overactive imagination. He’s thinking about all of the things Stan might do to him, about all of the things he might be able to do to Stan, feeling the feverish whispers of cool, steady hands on his thighs, teasing at their sensitive inners, and pressing them open. Yes, Stan knows _exactly_ what Eddie is thinking about. He doesn’t even have to look at him directly to read it; it’s in the flutters of his eyelids, in the way his fingers grasp at his bare knees, leaving faint red marks in the flesh, in the way his hips keep shifting ever-so-slightly in his seat, searching for friction and pressure against his rapidly growing arousal.

“I know just the place,” Stan offers, his voice still soft and steady, “It might take a while to get there, but we’ll be alone.” He can see that Eddie is watching him, so he continues, “No one will be able to see us, or hear us, at all.” He glances over into the passenger’s seat, now, and Eddie is staring back, dark eyes glittering with lust above the heavy flush across his cheeks, “Is that okay?”

He doesn’t think he has ever seen Eddie agree to something so quickly in his life.

“Do you think you can wait for a little while?” Stan questions lightly, eyes drifting down Eddie’s body and resting briefly on the obvious strain in the crotch of his shorts. Eddie quickly follows Stan’s line of sight, and then clasps his hands together in his lap, to hide his embarrassing ‘problem’ from view. He suddenly looks a volatile mixture of humiliated and angry, and Stan knows that he has to remedy that quickly if he wants Eddie to stay open and wanting; he’s like a tray of delicate crystal glasses, held between Stan’s hands, threatening to fall and shatter with the slightest misstep.

“It’s okay, Eddie,” Stan offers gently, and reaches over to ease Eddie’s hands apart, sliding their fingers together and brushing his thumb back and forth against the side of Eddie’s forefinger. As Stan predicted, Eddie’s expression softens once more, and he tightens his grip on Stan’s hand, holding it between both of his smaller, but stronger hands in his lap.

“You know you don’t have to be nervous around _me_ ,” Stan focuses on the road, now, sure to be as careful with Eddie’s car as he is with Eddie, “We have nothing to hide from each other.”

Eddie nods slowly, and Stan can feel the tension in the car dissipating again. Eddie is still staring at him, hanging off his every word.

“You don’t have to speak. You don’t owe me any explanation, nor do you need one.”

Eddie nods gently, in thanks, but he does speak, anyway, “I just get nervous about stuff like this…”

“I know.”

“I know it’s dumb…I know I don’t have a reason to be embarrassed around any of you guys, it’s just…something I can’t seem to get over…”

“It’s fine; you don’t have to try to justify it. Some people are just more confident than others. It’d be boring if we were all the same.”

“I guess…” Stan feels Eddie squeeze his hand.

“Besides, I think humility can be rather sexy.”

From the edge of his vision, Stan sees Eddie’s bottom lip hanging open a little, as he watches him. The atmosphere in the car changes, once again. Now, it’s calm, and quiet, but spiced with warm whispers of lust.

“In fact, I think most things about you are sexy,” Stan elaborates, keeping his voice low.

There’s another tight squeeze against Stan’s hand, now, but this time, Eddie’s thighs are pressing in against it, too, not just his fingers. Stan takes it as a sign of admission, and gently frees his hand from Eddie’s grip, so that he can slip it down between his legs, resting it against his thigh right at the crease where it meets his groin. Eddie is watching Stan’s hand intently, now, with a concentrated wrinkle in his brow, as though attempting to urge its movement along with just his gaze. With his smallest finger, Stan can feel the noticeable lack of any other material beneath Eddie’s gym shorts.

“You’re not wearing any underwear?” Stan’s not even sure, himself, whether that was a question, or a statement.

“I-it chafes, if…when I’m working out…I know it’s kinda gross, but I-”

“Okay,” Stan knows that Eddie can hear the amusement in his voice, now, but he doesn’t think it matters, “Well, that’s _definitely_ sexy.”

Eddie clearly doesn’t think so, himself, from that little wrinkle of his nose, but to have Stan, of all people, repeatedly describe him as such, seems to be having some effect, at least.

“Just when I start to think you couldn’t possibly be any more appealing, you surprise me,” Stan teases, as he strokes his hand down the inside of Eddie’s leg, to his knee, and then back up again, slowly. He repeats the action several more times, each slower and more delicate than the last, until Eddie’s thighs are starting to ease apart further and further, he’s looking more and more blissfully relaxed, and his eyelids are starting to droop with wanton desperation. And that’s when Stan starts to include his fingernails, not hard, of course, just a gentle graze, back and forth, tickling goose pimples into Eddie’s skin, and revelling in the way he is impatiently squirming in his seat, hungry for anything more. When Stan withdraws his hand, Eddie looks positively scandalised.

“I should probably keep both hands on the wheel,” Stan says confidently, knowing that Eddie won’t disagree; his car is his most prized possession, after all, “Why don’t you get comfortable, for now? Take off your shoes, at least?” Stan offers both as suggestions, as _questions_ , rather than as commands, knowing that Eddie doesn’t take well to being told what to do, when he’s feeling jittery. But if he makes him believe that it’s something he decided on his own, then it’s okay.

He sees Eddie watch him, for a while, as though considering what he wants to do, before he leans down to unfasten his laces, and carefully pulls off his pristine sneakers, sitting them side-by-side. He doesn’t seem any more comfortable, though. In fact, he keeps tugging at his shorts and shifting his thighs in a manner that seems distinctly the opposite.

“You know, if you’re feeling a little impatient, you could always start without me.”

Eddie’s head snaps around, now; he seems appalled at the very notion of touching himself in a remotely sexual way in front of _anyone._ Stan quickly makes to remedy Eddie’s outrage, though, to sway his view.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” he offers calmly, ensuring that Eddie doesn’t feel at all coerced, first of all, “I just thought you might start to feel a little more relaxed, if you did. Sort of like a warm-up.”

“‘A _warm-up’_?” Eddie sniggers softly, clearly finding some amusement in it, as Stan assumed he might.

“Exactly.”

“I don’t think it’s…that’s not…”

“Well, you might be waiting a while, otherwise.” Stan glances over Eddie’s body, again, making sure that Eddie sees him doing it, too, and his eyes linger once more on the obvious swell of Eddie’s erection in his shorts. When he sees Stan looking, his cheeks darken again, and his hands move to cover himself up, just like last time. Only, unlike last time, Eddie doesn’t clasp his hands together. This time, he cups them over his crotch, settles them there, slightly timidly, as though he’s considering Stan’s previous suggestion of relieving himself, somewhat.

“See? It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? It’s not like I’m even watching you; I have to focus on the road.”

“But you would still _know_ what I was doing.”

“Does that bother you?”

“ _Yes!_ ”

“Why?”

“Because, that’s…a private thing…”

“Would it make you feel better if I was involved?”

“…What do you mean?”

“Like, if I tell you to…press your hands down.” Stan turns to meet his eyes, briefly, before looking back at the road.

Eddie goes silent, for a while. Stan can see him chewing at his bottom lip again.

“Press your hands down, Eddie,” He repeats, gently but firmly.

This time, Stan sees Eddie’s back shift against the seat, and he definitely sees him comply. He also sees the tension in the defined muscles in Eddie’s arms as he does so.

“Good,” He praises softly, and he knows that Eddie is waiting for his next command, still feeling uncomfortable with openly touching himself unless being instructed to do so. “Squeeze a little with your fingers.”

Eddie obeys, once more, and Stan quietly observes the way Eddie kneads into his straining erection with the heel of his hand, too, his next outward breath bringing with it a soft, contented little sigh.

“Now, stroke yourself through the fabric.”

Stan sees the sudden tension in Eddie’s shoulders, now, but it doesn’t stop him from following Stan’s instruction, anyway. Slowly, he starts to rub himself through his shorts, fingers curving around the length, working up and down until a mixture of sweat and sticky heat have gripped the thin fabric to his skin, creating a rather vivid outline. Catching glimpses, every chance he gets to look away from the road, Stan admires the way Eddie’s back keeps lifting from the chair in these small, stifled arches, the way his hips keep pressing up into his palm, the way Eddie’s eyes keep darting over to Stan, in return, as though he’s silently begging for further direction.

“Just keep going,” Stan says softly, “You’re doing well.”

Eddie seems to be enjoying Stan’s praise immensely, fingers tightening and toes curling every time he hears him speak, which is why, over the next ten minutes or so, Stan peppers the relative silence with seductive whispers of recognition and flattery. Eddie keeps the pace of his hand slow and steady, regardless of the fact that he looks incredibly frustrated with it, and eager to just speed up. His fingers are even shaking with the strain of maintaining it, but Stan can see that Eddie’s not going to do anything of his own volition, right now, only what Stan tells him to. Stan doesn’t want Eddie to be uncomfortable, but he can’t help the enjoyment he’s getting from watching Eddie get himself so worked up, so he leaves him to it, for a while.

In fact, he leaves him to it long enough, that by the time Stan gives him any other instruction, Eddie has sunk down a little in his seat, he’s panting softly, occasionally groaning quietly in frustration, and there’s a sizeable spread of darkened material on the front of his shorts, wet with pre-come. At first, he looks at it with a mixture of worry and disgust, but the way it slickens the rub of the fabric against his skin, seems to brush that worry aside fairly quickly.

“Does it feel good?”

“ _Y-Yeah_ …”

Stan hears the desperate whimper in Eddie’s voice, and he feels it rush fairly violently through his own body in a thrum of arousal. He’s really beginning to wish he didn’t have to watch the road, because the occasional glances at Eddie that he’s allowing himself, aren’t nearly enough to sate his appetite, anymore. He doesn’t really have a choice, though, and the idea of being forced to wait until he can touch him, while listening to Eddie touch himself, is oddly rather exciting, in a masochistic sort of way.

“Put your hand in, now. Just go as fast as you want to.”

Eddie obviously doesn’t need any further encouragement. As soon as his fingers breach the waistband of his shorts, Stan hears his first moan; it’ll be one of many, that’s for sure, where Eddie is involved. He imagines how hot and wet Eddie’s flesh must be, now, beneath that fabric, and _God_ , he wishes that was his hand, instead, wishes he could watch the pleasure unravel in Eddie’s expression as he satisfied him in every way he knows how.

“You’re doing such a good job, Eddie. You’re so good,” Stan exalts softly, the next chance he gets to look over at him.

Eddie’s hips are rising a little from the seat, now, and Stan can see the outline of Eddie’s hand in the front of his shorts, moving quickly as he jerks himself off in short, fast strokes, his other hand shifting almost blindly between gripping his thigh, the backrest behind him, and his seatbelt, which he keeps pulling irritably away from his body. Every few unsteady breaths, Eddie groans, low and needy. For the first time, the car judders with Stan’s inattention, until he quickly braces his hands on the steering wheel, and silently curses his own carelessness. Thankfully, Eddie doesn’t even seem to notice.

“You’re such a good boy. Keep going.”

“ _Oh, fuck_ ,” Eddie whimpers, particularly desperately. He always starts to get talkative, once his inhibitions are gone, and Stan has been anticipating its beginning.

“Are you close?”

“ _Yeah_ … _I wanna come_ …” Eddie’s really arching up out of his seat, now, as much as his seatbelt will allow, his head is tipped back, and his eyes are closed.

“ _No_ ,” Stan replies quickly, and sharply, and Eddie whines pathetically in response, although his hand begins to slow.

“ _I wanna come so bad_.”

“No. Stop.”

Eddie looks quite distressed about it, but he does stop, withdrawing his hand from the confines of his clothing, and holding it slightly away from any part of his body. Stan doesn’t see why it would matter, any more, considering the mess Eddie has already made of his shorts, and his general sweatiness, but Eddie still looks vaguely repulsed by the sticky residue that’s coating his palm and his fingers. He’s watching Stan obediently, though, his eyelids heavy, and his breathing still off-kilter.

“ _I don’t wanna stop_ …”

“I know,” Stan assures, calmly, “I’ll make it up to you; I promise. We’re almost there.” He releases a hand from the steering wheel to get a gentle hold on Eddie’s wrist, “You can keep yourself occupied until then, can’t you? Just don’t come.”

“I can’t…”

“You _can_.” Stan slides his hand over the back of Eddie’s; Stan’s fingers are long, and slender, and Eddie’s are so much smaller, they’re swamped by Stan’s. He uses his hold to manoeuvre Eddie’s hand back down between his thighs, but he pushes further, now, lower, and uses two of his own fingers to lift the crotch of Eddie’s shorts to one side, “Go on.”

Eddie is clearly feeling shockingly pliant, now, because he doesn’t hesitate, his fingers brushing past Stan’s as he pushes the first one inside his body with surprising ease and a lengthy groan. Stan can’t help but watch in lustful admiration as Eddie slowly, but rather unsteadily, starts to finger himself, and he’s beginning to think that it would be worth crashing Eddie’s car into a tree just for a chance to look at him a second longer. Unfortunately, though, he has to draw himself away, replacing both hands at the wheel, and resorting to stealing glances as often as he can.

And he’s glad for those glances that he _does_ get, because Eddie changes his position shortly afterwards, drawing back long enough to lift his foot onto the edge of the seat, and hook his arm around the back of his thigh, so that he can slip his finger back inside at a more accessible angle. Stan can’t see much beneath the material of Eddie’s shorts, but what he can see is the quickening movement of his hand, the heavy flutter of his eyelids, and the way Eddie’s free hand moves to his chest to pinch at one of his hardened nipples through his t-shirt, briefly. He shoots a few anxious looks at the passenger’s side window, though, clearly frightened that someone might look over at the car, and see what he’s doing.

“Is that better?”

“ _Yeah._ ”

“But you won’t come so soon, huh?”

Eddie shakes his head.

Stan’s gaze rests briefly on Eddie’s hand, again. The way Eddie fingers himself is quick and reckless, with no real skill or rhythm. It’s not much of a surprise, since fast and rough is the way Eddie likes it, the way he wants it; precision really isn’t something he’s interested in. But his lack of accuracy makes for a bit of an awkward angle, and not much depth, and Stan knows from personal experience, the type of frustration that can come from the inability to reach certain areas, on your own.

“It’s not as easy to do it yourself, is it?”

Eddie shakes his head again, but this time faster than the last.

“I can help you with that,” He breathes softly, finding that he’s surprisingly agitated, now, himself, “Just a little longer. I’ll get to all those places you can’t reach.”

He hears Eddie groan in choked frustration, at that, but then, instead of being spurred on, Eddie stops. He removes his finger, and tugs at his shorts hard again, in definite disgruntlement.

“Are we almost there?”

“We’re almost there.”

“Can’t you just pull over here?” Stan sees Eddie’s head tip back against the seat, as he crosses his forearms over his face rather dramatically, still avoiding coming into any contact at all with the hand he has been using thus far to touch himself with.

“Not unless you want to get arrested.”

“But we’re in the middle of nowhere!” Eddie whines, lowering his arms again, looking out through the window at the darkened, empty road they’re currently driving on, and then looking at Stan intently, “Please, Stan.”

“We’re here, now, just sit back.”

Eddie reluctantly settles back into his seat as they turn off the dark, winding road, onto an even darker, even windier one, that’s only _just_ wide enough for a car to pass through between the trees. They end up in a small clearing, beside a lake, or perhaps only a pond, some body of water, at least; it’s almost too dark to tell. What’s certain, though, is that they’re definitely _alone._

Stan assumes that Eddie’s going to question how he even knows about a place like this, especially since it’s so far from home, but no such interrogation comes. Instead, Stan hears the frantic click of Eddie’s seatbelt, and barely has time to unfasten his own before Eddie is in his lap, apparently completely uninterested in the way the steering wheel is digging into his spine, or that his knee slips and pushes into the gearshift. Within seconds, Eddie’s latched onto him in a way Stan knows he’s not nearly strong enough to free himself from, and Eddie’s hands are frenetically touching him _everywhere_. First, they’re in Stan’s hair, as Eddie kisses him messily, and Stan allows him to, only occasionally parting his own lips, or gently moving his own tongue; Stan barely has to participate, at all. Then, Eddie’s hands are on Stan’s neck, gripping a little _too_ hard, but definitely not in a way that Stan is opposed to, before they slip down to his shoulders. They tug for a while, at the collar of Stan’s shirt, and then start fumbling at the buttons, only managing the top three before he’s anxious for something to grip at, again, and he finds a hold on the tops of Stan’s arms as he presses into his lap, rocking into him for relief, head dropping into the crook of his neck. There, Eddie groans in satisfaction, especially when he feels that Stan is hard, now, too, and once more when he feels Stan’s hands slide firmly onto his thighs, fingers breaching the hems of his shorts on both sides.

“ _I wanna come so bad_ ,” Eddie whines, as Stan gently strokes at his inner thighs with his thumbs, and helps guide the grind of his hips with his fingers pressed into Eddie’s hot, damp flesh.

“ _Then come_ ,” Stan whispers hotly against his ear, planting a slow kiss against the side of his face, “ _I’ll just make you come again_.”

The noise Eddie makes, then, is almost a sob, as he continues the quick, hard rut of his hips in Stan’s lap. Stan knows that Eddie gets clingy during sex, but that trait appears to have reached a new level of intensity; Eddie is pressed so fully against him, chest and stomach, arms snaking around his shoulders, and powerful thighs trapping him in at either side, it’s stifling. But Stan doesn’t care. Nor does he care about the creases Eddie must be worrying into Stan’s trousers, and his shirt, though he does think about it. And nor does he care about the wet stain of Eddie’s bodily fluids, on the front of his shorts, that’s currently seeping into the fabric of Stan’s clothes, as well, although, he thinks about that, too. All he cares about is the strong, but pleasant smell of Eddie’s strawberry shampoo, the sound of his snivelling, mumbled curses into Stan’s neck, and the sweat-slick shimmer of that toned, tan bicep that’s so close to Stan’s face, he has to hold back the urge to bite it.

“ _M-my clothes…_ ” Eddie stammers quietly, like he’s still capable of enough coherent thought to lament the soiling of one of his favourite pairs of shorts, and worry about coming inside them.

“You have clean clothes in the trunk, don’t you?” Stan assures softly against his neck, fingers sliding so far into the legs of Eddie’s shorts that their tips end up almost breaching the waistband. Eddie groans, and Stan’s lips brush his pulse. “I’ll wash your clothes for you when we get home.” Eddie is hopeless with laundry, after all. Stan lets his thumb ghost the underside of Eddie’s erection, and Eddie flinches in his lap, hisses right in his ear, and then whimpers lightly as he pushes his hand between them to get it back into his shorts to start stroking himself, again.

Stan can feel Eddie’s hand moving quickly, despite the fact that it’s enclosed by both of their bodies, and he teases soft touches against Eddie’s damp knuckles with the pad of his thumb, and listens intently to the wonderful noises Eddie is breathing right across the shell of his ear as he rapidly works himself to the edge.

“ _Are you gonna come_?” Stan doesn’t need to ask, because he knows the answer, but there’s something rather satisfying in seeing the admission.

There’s a frantic nod from Eddie; he has gone relatively silent, now, but for the occasional, strangled groan, indicative to anyone who knows Eddie intimately, that he’s seconds away from climax, and Stan gives a quick little shrug with the shoulder Eddie is leaning against, to urge him to lift his head.

“ _Look at me, Eddie_.”

Eddie doesn’t appear to want to do so, but he does, anyway, his forehead dropping against Stan’s heavily, and then his eyes fluttering closed. Stan enjoys observing as people unravel so basely right in front of his eyes, and he sees Eddie’s orgasm play out in distinct stages. First, the rut of his hips gets gradually less and less precise, and then stops. Then, his eyes tighten shut, thick lashes minutely shuddering with the strain atop his reddened cheeks. Then his lips part, just a little, a silent moan that Stan can see straining in his throat, too. And finally, there’s a sudden jolt, Eddie’s knees tighten, his hips buck hard, his breath stops, and his hand stutters, before stilling, too. Stan emphasises the grip of his fingers on Eddie’s thighs and his hips, and softly kisses at the corner of his mouth, as he feels him coming down, until Eddie’s head is buried into his shoulder, again, and suddenly he feels far heavier than he did, before.

Stan’s hands retreat from Eddie’s shorts, so that he can slide them around his waist, instead, and under his shirt up onto his back, stroking his skin in slow, soothing motions. Eddie’s body is incredibly hot, and damp with sweat.

“You did such a good job,” Stan praises against the side of Eddie’s head, and Eddie nuzzles into Stan’s neck, in response, breath hot and heavy against him. “But you want to go again, don’t you?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Eddie groans weakly into Stan’s collar.

That’s no surprise; ‘insatiable’ doesn’t quite come close to describing Eddie. It’s like once he has tasted pleasure, he can’t help but want more, and more, and _more_. He’s just so much fire and feeling and energy, coiled up inside such a small person, that it’s nearly impossible to deplete. Thankfully, he’s rather easy to satisfy, so doing it over and over again, becomes slightly less of a task.

“You wanna get into the back?”

Eddie agrees, once more, and then slowly peels himself out of Stan’s lap, climbing through between the front seats and into the back of the car, without a second thought. Stan suddenly feels rather cold, without Eddie’s heated body stuck hard against him.

“I’m not climbing,” He says, with a tone of amusement, as he opens the door and gets out of the car. As soon as he opens the back, Eddie’s hand is on Stan’s shirt, and he’s urging him inside onto the back seat, and pulling the door shut behind him.

This time, Stan ends up in Eddie’s lap, with Eddie’s insanely strong hands holding him there by the hips, and by the waist, dragging him down and kissing him hard on the mouth again. It’s a brief kiss, once more, Stan too impartial to kissing, and Eddie too impatient, for it to last any longer than a couple of minutes. Now, Eddie’s mouth is on Stan’s neck beneath his jaw, over-enthusiastically sucking a bruise into his skin; it’s so forceful, it hurts, which is turning Stan on far more than he would ever care to admit, and unfortunately preventing him from putting an end to a blemish he knows he’ll be mad about, later. In the meantime, Eddie’s hands fumble at Stan’s buttons, for the second time, unfastening his shirt, as his mouth moves further down his neck, to the crook of it at the other side. Then his hands are unbuckling Stan’s belt, as his mouth is on his collarbone. Then they’re rubbing and kneading at him through his trousers, as his mouth is on his exposed shoulder, exposed because Eddie tugged the material away with his teeth.

Stan can’t help the way his hips press forward into Eddie’s eager palms, nor the way he noticeably shivers when he lifts his hand to brush Eddie’s hair away from his sticky forehead, and Eddie’s mouth gets there, first, and starts biting and sucking a hickey into Stan’s pale, slender wrist.

For a while, Stan gets completely lost in the confusing fog of heat and pleasure, pressing his wrist harder to Eddie’s open lips, encouraging him to bite harder, to suck more thoroughly, feeling oddly light-headed when Eddie complies, and when he can vaguely feel Eddie’s hot, slick hands inside his trousers, and then his underwear, groping at him ardently. Later, when someone asks how Stan got that dark, scary-looking bruise on his wrist, he’ll tell them he hit it against his desk; the ones on his neck, and his collar, he’ll just cover with makeup.

“ _You’re such a good boy_ ,” Stan sighs breathily; it was almost a moan, and it was intentional. And just as predicted, Eddie’s eyes quickly snap up to Stan’s face, lidded with arousal, and Stan uses Eddie’s distraction to his advantage, pulling his wrist away slightly reluctantly, to slip his fingers around Eddie’s neck.

Instantly, he feels Eddie’s pulse quicken beneath his fingertips, especially when he tightens his hand around his throat, just enough to cause a little strain.

“ _But I’m not done with you, yet_.”

Eddie whimpers softly, as Stan shifts their positioning, pressing one of his knees between Eddie’s thighs, and then sliding it underneath one of them, doing the same with his other leg, until Stan is no longer straddling Eddie’s lap; now, Eddie is mostly in his, again, trapped between Stan and the back seat. Stan delights in Eddie’s degraded state, the mess on the front of his shorts, his sweaty skin, the heaviness of his eyelids, his normally impeccably-styled hair thoroughly ruffled, now, and sticking to his forehead, and the perpetual flush in his freckled cheeks.

“ _I’m not ready_ …” Eddie croaks, slightly irritably, but Stan’s hand on his throat seems to have encouraged some kind of reaction, at least, because when he tugs the front of Eddie’s shorts down by the waistband, and exposes him, he’s already half-hard, again.

“We’ll see.”

“ _No!_ ” Eddie yelps, and flinches away, when Stan rests his fingers against his length, just lightly, brushing them back and forth from base to tip. Eddie’s body is shuddering and twitching with over-stimulation, as he tries to avoid Stan’s touch, but Stan only hums in wicked amusement as he runs his fingers and his palm through the white, sticky mess all over Eddie’s groin, and then wraps his hand around him loosely. It’s enough to send visible shocks of sensitivity up Eddie’s spine, which quickly snaps up from the seat in an uncomfortable arch, “ _No_ …”

Eddie falls silent when Stan squeezes against his neck, and his eyelids droop, and he resorts to a childlike whimper, instead, his fingers digging hard into Stan’s thighs beneath his own.

“Every time you move, I’m going to go faster.”

As though to test his threat, Eddie’s hips twitch slightly violently, and that’s when Stan begins to move his hand, up and down the length, fingers still loose, and movements incredibly slow, but it’s more than enough for Eddie to feel _intensely_.

“ _It hurts_ …” Eddie whines, hips reactively flinching away from Stan’s touch, once more. As promised, Stan’s hand begins to move a little faster, and Eddie protests loudly, trying to buck him away, but it only encourages Stan to tighten his grip, and stroke more quickly, again.

“ _Oh, fuck, n-…please…please Stan…_ ” Eddie’s fingers scrabble at Stan’s thighs, now, clawing at him, almost, his hips still involuntarily jerking and rutting as his body attempts to avoid the excessive sensation, “ _Please, it hurts…it hurts_ …” Eddie’s voice sounds choked with emotion, now, and his eyes are brimmed with tears, but Stan only continues to follow his promise of going faster every time Eddie moves. He’s stroking him at a fairly firm, steady rhythm, now, and Eddie is fully hard again, reactively.

“Stay still. Try to relax,” He soothes, at least loosening his grip slightly, on Eddie’s neck, “It’ll feel so good, soon.” Eddie’s obvious discomfort is unsettling, but Stan is determined to keep pushing him through it, knows Eddie can take it. There’s an edge, somewhere, in the midst of this powerful pleasure/pain barrier, that once you cross it, it gets _agonisingly_ good.

“ _No, I can’t_ … _I can’t do it…I can’t do it..._ ” Eddie cries, sniffling slightly as the tears brimming in his eyes finally begin to spill down the sides of his face. His muscles are straining, now, with the effort of keeping his hips still, and he’s digging his fingertips so hard into Stan’s thighs that it hurts, but Stan feels it’s a fair exchange, so he braces through it, even when he knows there’ll be bruises on his legs, tomorrow, in the shape of Eddie’s fingers.

“ _You can. You can do it. You’re doing so well_.”

“ _I don’t want to_ …” Eddie whimpers, choking back a sob, and Stan falters, slowing his hand and leaning in, whispering against Eddie’s lips.

“ _It’s gonna feel so good, soon, I promise_.” He nuzzles against Eddie’s nose a little, and gives him a brief kiss, “ _Just hold on thirty seconds longer, and if we’re still not there, I’ll stop, okay_?”

Eddie pants raggedly against Stan’s lips, staring into his eyes intently, but after a short while, he nods his approval, and Stan speeds up his hand again, admiring the trembling arch of Eddie’s back and the deep furrow in his brow.

For about fifteen seconds, it seems as though Eddie still certainly wants him to stop, although he’s now remaining obediently still, other than the uncontrollable shudders of his body, which Stan deems too difficult to regulate to be punishable. But just when Stan is about to cease his torture, Eddie’s head drops back and he makes a distinctive, pleasured noise, his mouth hanging open, and his eyes falling closed.

A rut of Eddie’s hips, that seems like it might be fully intentional, this time, encourages Stan to fasten the pace of his stroke, and when he does, Eddie’s hips lift towards him, this time, instead of away, and the loud, ecstasy-filled groan that’s torn from his throat, is _sinful_.

“ _Oh, f-fuck, it feels good…don’t stop…don’t stop_ …”

Stan watches Eddie in smug, wanton fascination, as he once more tightens his hand around his neck, and Eddie lets out another choked, tearful groan.

“It feels good?”

“ _Yeah!_ ” Eddie’s hands shoot up to grip at the edge of the seat either side of his head, and his hips start a desperate, needy rock up into Stan’s hand, “ _Please…oh, fu-uck…yeah_ …”

Stan helpfully tightens his grip, speeds up again, starts to jerk him off fast and hard, just the way Eddie likes it, and marvels at the way his self-consciousness just seems to have disappeared completely. The slick, wet sounds of Stan’s hand on Eddie’s cock, and Eddie’s hard, heavy breaths, punctuated with countless immodest moans, are filling the silence in the cab lewdly.

“ _Oh…ye-…it feels so good…it feels so fucking good_ … _please don’t stop_...”

“ _I’m not going to stop_.” Stan laughs softly.

The beautiful muscles in Eddie’s arms are straining as he grips at the backrest, and Stan leans in to kiss at one of his biceps, before biting a quick mark into the underside of his jaw, his hand still moving in quick, tight, wet strokes.

“ _Oh, fuck_ … _I’m gonna come…I’m gonna come_ …”

Stan smirks, releasing his hand from Eddie’s neck so that he can use it to lift Eddie’s t-shirt out of the way, rucking it up off his stomach and chest, and admiring the chiselled, firm curves of Eddie’s torso, and the way the defined muscles in his abdomen continuously harden with every twitch and shudder.

“ _You’re so beautiful_ ,” Stan purrs gently, and seconds later, he sees Eddie’s muscles convulse, and hears him cry out tearfully, as he splatters his tan body with a contrast of creamy-white liquid, his second climax in the space of what can only be ten or fifteen minutes.

Eddie is shaking fiercely, when he starts to come down from his climactic high, this time, finding a little trouble catching his breath, face still stained with tears, and Stan softly strokes at his sides, and watches him carefully, as Eddie begins to relax.

“That’s it; slow, deep breaths.” He instructs calmly, making sure that Eddie is following his advice, before he leans across to take a bottle of water from Eddie’s gym bag, opening the cap and resting it close to Eddie’s lips, until he takes it and swallows a few large mouthfuls. Stan brushes Eddie’s hair away from his face neatly, with the fingers of his clean hand, of course, before he reaches for Eddie’s bag, again, to get the large pack of wet wipes that are tucked down the side.

“Wait.”

Stan looks back at Eddie questioningly, and Eddie averts his eyes, nervously, before looking back at him.

“I wanna see you do it,” He finally says, boldly.

Stan pauses, trying not to show his amusement. He knows exactly what Eddie is talking about, but it wouldn’t hurt to hear him try to explain it, anyway.

“See me do what?”

“Don’t play dumb. It’s so annoying.”

Stan can’t help but break, then, and he sniggers. So does Eddie.

“You saw me do it. I wanna see you do it,” Eddie continues, clearly too relaxed, too tired, or just too stubborn to care about being embarrassed, anymore. He takes another sip of water, and then closes the cap, tucking the bottle back into his bag. To avoid spreading the mess on his stomach, Eddie lifts his shirt off over his head, then, stuffing it into his bag.

There’s a moment of silence between them, then, before Stan shifts out from underneath Eddie, and sits back next to him, instead, sliding his belt out of the loops. Eddie watches him with a mixture of disbelief, and sudden awareness, like he really wasn’t expecting him to ever agree. Still, he stays close to him, shoulder-to-shoulder, as Stan toes off his shoes, wriggles out of his trousers and hooks them neatly over the back of the driver’s seat, and then tugs off his underwear, too.

It’s quiet, now; there’s no talking, or back-and-forth, like there was when Eddie was the focus. Now, the atmosphere is somehow calmer, more sensual, and Eddie turns to face Stan, leaning against him as he watches him slide his hand under himself and slip his middle finger, still wet with Eddie’s release, into his body like he has done it a thousand times before. Stan doesn’t feel shy that Eddie is watching him, not in the slightest. If anything, it’s turning him on even more, and he allows his head to rest against Eddie’s as he continues.

The way Stan fingers himself is very different to the way Eddie does it. It’s slow, deep, and precise, and a constant, gentle roll of his hips aids the movements, as he dips his finger in and out, and carefully lifts his foot onto the edge of the seat. The whole thing feels very relaxed, and _deeply_ satisfying, even for Eddie, just as an observer. It’s strangely akin to watching a professional perform a task so effortlessly, after seeing a layman do it with very little skill.

“You make it look easy…” Eddie says quietly, from beside Stan’s ear, and Stan lets out a soft, amused breath, but he doesn’t respond. He can feel Eddie’s breath tickling the side of his face, and one of Eddie’s hands holding his arm loosely, and just having him that close is enough to fuel Stan with enough sexual adrenaline that this might not take as long as it usually does, when he does it by himself. Sometimes it can even take hours, and he always gets there, eventually, but having a body that’s difficult to satisfy can be incredibly frustrating, especially when you’re a sexual person, as Stan absolutely considers himself to be.

It’s definitely still going to take more than just one finger, though, and Stan pauses his movements long enough to press his ring finger in, too, feeling a little buzz of pleasure in his groin at the slight stretch. He recognises that his breathing is getting slightly ragged, but he’s good at controlling it, and keeping it steady. That doesn’t prevent Eddie from noticing the effort, though; it’s the same technique you might use for a panic attack, deep, slow breaths in through the nose, and then equally lengthy breaths out through the mouth. Stan can feel Eddie’s gaze fixed on his face, now.

“Does it feel good?” He asks, almost timidly, nuzzling his head just-so against Stan’s, and Stan nods in reply, finding his fingers moving a little faster almost of their own volition at hearing Eddie’s fond voice so close to his ear.

Then Eddie’s hand is on Stan’s chest, carefully adjusting his shirt so that it’s tucked out of the way at either side, and then smoothing its way across his skin, down to his abdomen and right into the slim ‘V’ of his groin, and back again. Stan has the urge to arch his back in response to the touch, but he doesn’t; appearing needy is the exact _opposite_ of how he wants to be perceived, and he loathes when he can’t control it. He deepens each inward press of his fingers, though, attempting to scratch that desperate itch in other ways, ways that aren’t quite as demeaning.

It gets harder to regulate, though, when Eddie starts grazing his nails up and down Stan’s torso, instead, leaving faint, red lines across his pale skin. He feels every minute hair on his body standing on end, his thighs shaking briefly enough that he hopes Eddie didn’t notice, and his nipples hardening. Eddie _does_ notice, though, because even though he’s not usually a very observant person, this is something he’s really focusing his full attention on. And with his noticing, he clearly feels the urge to continue, or to intensify, whatever it was he did that made Stan feel good, so he runs his nails up and down his skin a little more thoroughly, and does the same thing over his thighs, too.

Stan would hate to admit that such a small gesture could have such a profound effect on him, but somehow he can feel the distant beginnings of a climax, deep in his gut, the kind of feeling that usually takes him much longer to achieve. And the harder Eddie’s nails scrape across his body, the more obvious it becomes. And it worsens, or improves, rather, when Eddie finds the little reddened fingerprints he left near Stan’s knees, earlier, and, after feeling across them gently for a while, decides to drag his nails roughly up the inside of Stan’s thigh.

This time, Stan hisses, and he can’t help the way his back lifts a little from the seat as he forces his fingers deeper into his body. Eddie is still watching him, eyelids a little heavy with a sort of symbiotic lust that’s coming directly from Stan’s visible pleasure. Stan feels Eddie’s forehead hit his temple gently, and then hot, wet lips on his neck. Again, Eddie’s fingers claw their way across his inner thigh, over the same marks he left behind the last time, reddening and raising the already sore-looking flesh. Spurred on by the coils of climactic pleasure burning less and less distantly in his body, Stan curves his fingers, twisting, reaching for something he knows already that he won’t be able to touch by himself without an aid; he has tried plenty of times, before.

He doesn’t have to ponder over this for long, though, because, suddenly, he feels Eddie’s hand press in against the back of his own, and Eddie’s eyes are on the side of Stan’s face, again, as though awaiting his permission to help. Stan offers a gentle nod, trying his best not to look too desperate, despite how much he knows he wants it.

Then Stan feels Eddie’s fingertip gently prodding at his rim, stroking, rubbing, teasing its way in. Stan’s about to push down against him, to encourage Eddie to just go for it, because he _loathes_ being teased, in spite of his penchant for inflicting it upon others, but he doesn’t have to; Eddie’s middle digit sinks into him fully above Stan’s other two fingers, and the wonderful burn of pleasure it delivers, causes Stan to curse under his breath.

Eddie’s hungry eyes are still fixed on Stan, and even more intently, now, as he curves up his finger, reaching, searching for a spot Eddie definitely isn’t used to having to find, himself. Meanwhile, Stan halts the movement of his own fingers, to facilitate Eddie’s search, pushing upwards with his knuckles, non-verbally forcing him closer to where he wants him to be. It only takes a couple of seconds, though, before Stan feels that strange numbness in his thighs, a rush of adrenaline, and a dull wave of ecstasy that renders him light-headed and burning with the immediate, overwhelming desire to ejaculate.

Eddie watches as Stan’s eyelids flicker, and his breath hitches, and he clearly knows he’s in the right place, because he presses down harder, and starts to rub into it as thoroughly as he can, groaning softly in response, when he hears Stan do it, first. Stan wastes no time in putting his own fingers to good use, again, sliding them in and out fast beneath Eddie’s. This time, he does nothing to prevent the arch of his back, or the loll of his head against the backrest, or the blissful moan that escapes his lips with his breath. He might feel ashamed, if he’d even fully registered that he was the one who made that noise, but he doesn’t. Pleasure is building viciously in his abdomen, now, and all he can muster the coherent thought to do is to hasten its release.

And he does.

Not even a minute later, he feels it rush through his body in a flood of blissful convulsions, that leave behind a strange tingling sensation all over his skin, when his orgasm eventually wanes. Eddie removes his finger, first, and Stan follows with the extraction of his own, shortly after, glancing down at the spray of his own fluids across his stomach and chest.

As he regains sensation and mental fortitude, Stan registers the way Eddie is pressed against his side, and the obvious hardness of an erection straining at his hip.

“You’re insatiable,” Stan breathes in amusement, settling himself with a few deep breaths as Eddie shifts away slightly bashfully.

“It’s not like I’m making it happen on purpose!”

“I know,” Stan laughs softly, sitting himself up straight, and reaching for the wipes so that he can clean himself off, discarding of them in one of the Ziploc bags Eddie keeps in his car for litter. He admires Eddie’s agitated fluster, as he pulls his underwear back on, “I distinctly remember promising you something I haven’t delivered yet, though.” He tugs at Eddie’s ankle indicatively, and Eddie snickers, moving closer again and nuzzling his face into Stan’s neck, arms tight around him.

“You know, you’re really cute when you’re not yelling,” Stan smiles into the side of Eddie’s hair, affectionately stroking his back and his shoulders.

“Shut up.” Eddie’s voice is muffled into Stan’s skin, as he presses closer still, especially clingy when Stan’s hands begin creeping their way into the back of his shorts.

“That’s bold, telling me to ‘shut up’, when you’re completely at my mercy.”

Eddie groans, but while it soundly _mildly_ aroused, it’s mostly exasperation. “That might work on Bill, but you don’t scare _me_.”

Stan laughs, soft and warm, as he gently grips at Eddie’s rear end, and the backs of his thighs, “I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” He slides his two longest fingers down the crease between Eddie’s ass cheeks, rubbing pointedly against his sensitive rim, “I want you to be afraid of how much you _want_ me.”

A thorough, sensual shudder runs through Eddie’s body, and Stan feels it fully, as he continues the slow stimulation.

“You’re a bitch,” Eddie grumbles into Stan’s neck, though his thighs shift in a way that consciously exposes the area to allow for further ‘assault’.

“A ‘bitch’ who’s about to pleasure you until you cry again?”

Eddie shivers.

“Turn around,” Stan orders as he pulls his hands free, and loosens Eddie’s grip from around his neck. Eddie looks a little tired, but mostly docile, and he does as he’s told, shifting so that his back is facing Stan, instead. His breath audibly shakes when Stan kisses the back and side of his throat. He whimpers when he bites it. He whines when Stan drags his fingernails down his spine, harder than Eddie did it to him. He groans when Stan forces him forward onto his hands and knees, with a firm hand on his neck. And he yelps when Stan slaps the back of his thigh, skin flushing instantly red.

“Do the others know about this?” Stan whispers venomously, as he tugs at the waistband of Eddie’s shorts, down to the tops of his thighs, “Do they know you like to be treated this way?” Another sharp slap lands on Eddie’s ass, this time, and Eddie groans loud and completely uninhibited, rocking forward on his hand and knees, and then eagerly pressing back again.

“Do they know you like feeling someone’s hands around your throat?” He purrs as he strokes his hands smoothly up the arch of Eddie’s back, and squeezes at the back of his neck. “Do they know you like having your hair pulled nice and hard?” Stan’s fingers entwine in Eddie’s thick hair, and he tugs his head back roughly, earning a brief, wanton yelp. “Do they know you like feeling fingernails on your skin?” There are nail marks down the length of Eddie’s back already, red and raw and vicious, but Stan drags his fingers down them once more, watching the muscles shift and contract, and listening to Eddie’s pathetic little whimper. “And do they know…” Stan begins, as he rubs at the firm, reddened flesh of Eddie’s behind, “That you like to be spanked until you can’t sit down?” Stan hits him again, in the same place his hand landed last time, the sound of skin slapping skin loud and sharp in the heated cabin, punctuated only by Eddie’s weak cry.

“You’re such a good boy,” Stan smirks against Eddie’s skin as he leans over him to press a kiss to the curve in the middle of his spine. In the meantime, Stan’s slender middle finger slides down between Eddie’s cheeks again, and presses into him slowly, right up to the knuckle. Eddie grits out a muffled ‘ _Yeah’_ from between his teeth, and groans hard when Stan brushes his lips across to bite at his waist.

“ _Please…_ ”

“Please?” Stan repeats playfully, starting to push his finger in and out languidly, but with enough force to gently rock Eddie’s body forward with each press. That seems to be just what Eddie wanted, though, because his head drops forward and he whines in satisfaction.

“I like you like this,” Stan muses, as he kisses his way down Eddie’s back, and then sits back on his heels, “All needy and obedient.” He starts moving his finger a little faster, and Eddie gently lowers the upper half of his body onto the leather seat, every pant of his hot breath audible and laced with slightly strangled groans.

Another slap against the same spot that has been hit twice, now, reddens Eddie’s skin further still, and Stan admires it as he works his finger harder and faster into Eddie’s body.

“ _Oh, fuck!”_

Stan hits him again, at the other side, this time, and then again, evening out the colour so that both sides are just as hot and flushed.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Stan asks teasingly.

Eddie’s thighs are quivering as Stan continues to finger him thoroughly.

“ _Please…”_

 _“_ More?”

“ _Y-Yeah…”_

Stan twists a second finger past Eddie’s rim with his first; Eddie is tighter than Stan, and he can really feel the stretch, now, but Eddie doesn’t seem to be experiencing any discomfort, only pleasure, as he grips at the edge of the seat and rocks his hips back against Stan’s fingers eagerly, increasing the pace. At least, until Stan starts moving his fingers fast enough that Eddie’s assistance is completely unnecessary.

“ _Oh f-fuck…that feels s…so good…_ ” Eddie whimpers wantonly, and Stan can hear tears in his throat again.

“You like it like this? Fast and hard?”

“ _Yeah...I w-want it so fucking hard…”_ Eddie groans out between gritted teeth, and Stan watches him in lust-filled amusement, as he pushes roughly with his fingers and curves them to reach his prostate, with unmatched precision and skill. Stan hears Eddie’s fingers claw against the leather before he sees it happen, and then he expels a particularly loud moan that sounds tear-filled and laden with ecstasy, toes curling either side of Stan’s knees.

“ _Come on_ ,” Stan breathes softly, fingers still pumping in and out quick and rough, “Are you gonna come again for me?”

“ _Yeah,”_ Eddie whines pathetically, sniffling and gasping, and Stan can tell that those tears that have been threatening for a little while, have finally started falling.

“ _You’re doing so well_ ; _you’re so good_.”

Eddie pushes himself up onto his hands and knees again, clearly finding the best angle, as Stan continues to fuck him so hard and fast with his fingers that the slick, disgusting sounds of it are shockingly loud. Eddie scrabbles for purchase against the backrest with one sweaty palm, loudly moaning vulgar curses between heavy breaths and desperate sobs.

When Eddie comes, this time, it’s _hard._

Stan slows his fingers to ride him through it, and rests a firm, comforting palm against the small of Eddie’s back as he watches him tense up, and then violently quiver between climactic spasms. As he starts to drift down from the pinnacle high, Eddie collapses heavily against the seat, and Stan can hear him crying as he tries to catch his breath.

“ _You’re okay, Eddie. You did so well._ ” Stan praises softly, leaning over his back as he pulls out his fingers, to place gentle, loving kisses all across Eddie’s shoulders and down his spine. He strokes at his back and his sides soothingly, and whispers affectionate compliments close by his ear, until Eddie begins to calm.

And Stan takes care of everything, after that, turns Eddie onto his back and tugs off his completely ruined shorts, and his socks, bags them up, cleans his body and the car seat, and neatly discards of all of the evidence. Once Eddie is fully aware of his surroundings again, he’d likely have a full-blown panic attack, if he saw that kind of mess in his car.

“Drink.” He says firmly, as he passes Eddie his water bottle, again, and Eddie does so, as Stan sits back with Eddie’s legs over his knees and strokes at his thighs softly.

Eddie looks blissfully relaxed.

“I don’t know about you,” Stan offers quietly, letting his head rest back against the seat, “But I can’t wait to get home and take a shower.”

Eddie sniggers, and nods.

“It might take a while, though.” He gives Stan some of his water.

“How so?”

Eddie watches him drink.

“Because there’s no fucking way you’re touching my steering wheel again until you’ve washed your hands.”


End file.
